In the Eye of the Beholder
by Iubar
Summary: The tale of Helen's uncertainty as she attempts to trust Paris, his promise of a voyage to Troy, and the chance for a life fulfilled.
1. Sins without repentance

_Just a warning… I might deviate from the actual script in my writing because I find that retelling without creativity is not worth my time. I hope you'll like it. This is my attempt to add some sort of logic behind the utter selfishness of Paris and Helen: this is my attempt at an explanation, I suppose. Enjoy!_

**A night together...  
**  
The moonlight streamed through the window in a melodious trickle. The individual rays came through the window in an unhurried saunter, preening at their gilded reflections in the opaque panes. They danced and leapt through the shutters, vainglorious and proud of the shimmering beauty they knew they possessed. Creeping across the sullied sheets and tumbled silken pillows, the moonbeams crept and snuck throughout the gilded chamber as nymphs of the nighttime and fairies of good cheer. Their smiling mistress, the moon above, beamed indulgently on their exploring. Curiously, as though unveiling a masterpiece, the moon's rays touched upon the human face resting there in the bed at this late hour. Awed, they drew collectively back after a single moment's pause on her features. The face they cast into such stark relief was easily more lovely than they, and they were humbled by her presence. She was stunning, was this goddess of the nighttime. But she was more than merely attractive. She was unreal, clouded by an aura of the fantastic, as though Aphrodite herself had planted a kiss on her forehead as when a squalling babe. With that kiss, her flaxen locks had turned into the silkiness of molten gold, rippling and gilded; her skin had deepened into the blush of a peach's skin, soft and fuzzy, and her eyes had broadened and darkened with intent. And, though there was a fragility to her that seemed to beg for protection, the iron set to her gaze and the haughty set to her chin spurned all attempts at comfort. It was the same this night. Her eyes were velvet in texture, coarsened by heartbreak and rich with emotion. But they were lonely and exquisite in their sadness, and they watched the solemn nighttime with a silence that was deafening.  
Helen of Sparta lay sprawled in sheets of satin. Helen of Sparta was tangled in her sheets of satin, and they bound her luxurious limbs more tightly than ropes in snares of her own devising. Chunks of hewn gold rested against her pale skin, as fire upon transparent glass, and they were looped around her neck by way of slim chains. She fingered one of the necklaces absently as she lay there. Back and forth, back and forth, her restless fingers skittered as she fondled the necklace in bemusement. Despite the lateness of the hour, her mind was on other matters. Underneath the careless coverings of her lids, her eyes were alive, twitching to the beat of the revelry going on downstairs and moving, always moving, to the restless tattooing of the drums. And, it was not until another hand came up to subdue her restless touch that she stilled anxious moving.  
"Helen," he murmured against the tautness of her throat as he leaned in to place a kiss. "Helen." A single blonde curl had escaped the mass falling to her shoulders, and he captured it between his forefinger and thumb, like a butterfly held by its wings. And, though she kept her eyes closed and her lips parted, her heart fluttered beneath his fingers.  
"Paris."

Helen felt, rather than saw, the outbreak of his smile. It started suddenly, almost uncertainly, as though the ability to begin the sincere gesture was lost on this confident youth. It began against her shoulder. Moments earlier, when he had collapsed there after his moment of passion, she had felt the heaviness of his breathing against her skin and had thrilled in the feeling. Now, she quickened to the touch of his smile even more. Even when their breathing had slowed and quieted after the outpouring of affection, they had remained thus: he slung over her, uncaring and limber, and she curled under him, sleepy and wistful. His muscular arms snaked under her shoulders to hold the back of her neck just so, with his fingers massaging the nape where her blonde mass showered down onto the pillow in long coils. And when she turned to see the furtive grin, childish and quick, her own wishful smile was displayed boldly for him to witness. After a moment of surprise, chuckles erupted, shy and swift, born from the boldness of their own audacity.  
"You look like a besotted boy," she uttered loftily as she threaded her fingers through his nape, and her eyes were laughing at his unquenched adoration, as she watched him rest so serenely beside her. She was surprised to feel him stir after her teasing remark, and she roused from her perfumed stupor to meet his stare.  
"Oh, my love? Is that so?" Paris chased her answering grin, small and knowing, with a burning look and rakish smirk. Her look of surprise was quelled under the hot possessiveness of his gaze as he confronted her there, against the pillow, with the aroma of their love still clinging to their conjoined forms.  
The gleaming bronze of his tawny arms burned in the light as he lowered himself downwards to graze her lips with a breath, a promised kiss, a gentle wisp of air to enliven her sense." Besotted I am," he snaked upwards to ply her lips between his, hungry and challenging. But the look in his eyes was not meant to pacified or sated by the hungry meeting of lips. It was a look earned under the coiffed leadership of a stellar older brother and a venerated father, and it was a look of fiery rebellion. "But I am no boy, worldly woman of Sparta. Never a boy." When she clasped him close to console him, she could taste the warmth of his promise on his lips. Never a boy, indeed.

Long moments passed. He remained in her arms, and the golden flow of her hair meshed with his silky russet curls. She was lauded as the most beautiful woman of the land. Against the rising tide of sleep, she could remember the suitors for her wedding with dim fondness and the peculiar curiosity that a child cherishes towards strange events. She had been a child then. She had been a child on her wedding night, when her swine of her husband had rutted his way to satisfaction on her virgin form, all pretensions to kingliness cast aside. She had been a child when she had birthed her first babes, crying and red-cheeked with indignation at the undignified entrance, and she had been a babe when Prince Hector first landed on her shore to confer with the king. But then- oh, then she had grown up. She had become a woman the first time he had touched boot-tip to Sparta's shore, with those eyes that were so disarming and that smile of confidence. She had grown into a woman the moment Paris first bent over her hand in greeting, and she had been a woman the moment her gaze first traced his as he walked away. She had listened to the serving girls gush over him as they went about their chores, and for the first time, she regretted them their revelry and playful fancying. His eyes had held a promise. She felt, intrinsically, that she was destined to fulfill it. And now, after she had lain in his arms and learned the pattern of his breathing, she loved him more than ever.  
But she was unlike him. Impetuous and willful, his love came in spurts. All of the world knew of Paris and his intrigues, of the many women to be wooed to his bed- and left there by the dawning sun. She merely wondered what would happen when the intrigue played out. She was not like him. Never graced with his ebullient carelessness, she had been chained in marriage to the first man to claim her. She bore no whimsical dreams about this partnership and its longevity. She merely wondered whether her heart would withstand the loss of the love she had felt after Paris turned his curious gaze to other women with pleasures still foreign to him. She merely wondered if she would live once his love had withered, as it surely would.

But perhaps the choice would be made for her. His ships were poised to sail within the next few days. Some of the supplies were being laden on the wooden planking, and the billowy canvas glistened in the moonlight. She would give it three days. Three more days of feasting, and three more days of hidden love. He would leave her before their loved had faded, and her heart would be salvaged. Nay, she was not like him. She was a woman. She had not the luxury. Against the hardness of his chest, her cheek slipped and fell. She could hear through the thick stone walls the carousing downstairs. She could hear the faint chime of the music, light and quick, and she could hear the rhythmic tapping of the dancers' heels against the cold floor. And, through the vivid melody, she could hear the bellow of Menelaus, deep and boisterous, and the lighter chuckle of Hector interrupt the refrain. His laughter shattered her. His laughter doused her fantasy, and she roused herself, bewildered and trembling, from Paris's lax arms.

"Helen? Why so sad?" Paris breathed against her lips as he rose above her, urging her to quicken against him for a kiss. Her white fingers began toying with the golden necklace around her neck again, fast and uneasy, as she turned her head away. The curls fell inward, fast and ready, to block her drawn features from his prying gaze.  
"Why are you not so?" she whispered aloud, and the rebuke in her tone was faltering and frightened. "Why are you not sad? Look outside, Prince of Troy. Are you blind to the ships that gather there to bear you hence?" His arms groped for her, but she slid out from them and stood alone in the night air, unashamed and unafraid as the breeze prickled her skin. Her only adornments were her jewelry and untamed mass of hair, and she bent her body forward so that she was hidden from view behind them. Silently, he rose out of their mussed blankets and stood behind her, careful and cautiously evaluating.  
"You should be going," she murmured into the thickness of the air as she wrapped thin arms around her willowy frame. Her curved back was to him still. "Your brother will be looking for you, and it is a risk for you to remain." He stayed behind her only a moment, with eyes that were perplexed and a face that was uncertain. The brown orbs were confused and surprised, thick with unease, and their spirit was tempered. His harsh breathing countered her sporadic gasps, uneasy and fragile. A cry rose in her throat when he stepped forward anyway, to seize her arms and pull her close. When she tried to free herself from his arms, he proved stubborn and refused to move, thus chaining her close. With lips that were hard against her ear, he spoke roughly and quickly into her listening, and she quelled under the comfort of his words.  
"Know that it is a risk I gladly make, Helen. It is a risk I gladly make." She was released, but she did not move. She heard him gather up his clothes and dress silently, a phantom shifting behind her. She felt his final look, and she did not turn around.  
It was only when he had finally exited that she allowed the tears to fall. The sun nudged at the horizon line, uneasy and faltering. The second day had begun, and Helen's beauty dimmed.


	2. The decision

**The palace in Sparta  
The feast on the eve of travel...**

The nighttime seemed to glisten. Vibrant reds and royal purples toyed with one's vision as they swooped in and out of one's senses. Courtiers swathed in elegant white meshed with painted nobles in crimson sashes, and the scene was one of ornate pageantry. The plumage of the peacocks dripped with jewels as they strutted in their colors. All of the city's finest had taken refuge between the draped walls and upon the perfumed rushes. All of the city's finest wanted to be present to bid Troy's fair princes adieu. But inside the rooms, the air was hot and thick with dust. Cloying scents clung to ladies' swathing, of spicy cinnamon and waxy vanilla, of pungent lavender and dewy roses, and the air was congested with the battling aromas. Hewn wooden tables bore the delegation and the burly soldiers, adding to the crowded stench, and the sharp aroma of seasoned meat pervaded when the food was placed down. And at the head of the table, Menelaus reigned, as boorish and unrefined as the masses supping at his feet. Paris was lost in a dream, however, that caused these realizations to dissipate. Clothed in finery and coiffed with the fine oils and waxes of the other wealthy, he was nonetheless apart from them. They both were. His dark gaze, unending and solemn, remained transfixed on hers. His breathing slowed to match hers. And though she tried to look away, she could not. Even now, beside the husband she had wedded, she could not resist him.

Helen sat at Menelaus's side, gracefully folded into an ornate seat as remarkable as her consort's. Strings of gold hammered as thin as wire had been wrought into a wreath for her head, and she had woven it between ocher locks as to giver her curls a brighter display. Fresh lilies, drooping in the heat, had been threaded in beside the gold. Metal and life, together as one. Iron will and the softness of petals, together as one. Pale eyes, as pale as his were dark, were riveted on his. They seemed sapped of color tonight, bleached and serene in mourning, and his face softened in sympathy. She was regal still. She was coiffed in jewelry and the finest silk wrappings, and she shimmered in her white cloth. Pale skin blended with the fabric and receded, and all of Helen that was left was the burnished sunlight of her hair and the tender blueness of her gaze. She had never seemed more isolated and apart. She had never seemed more queenly. Stirred despite himself, he blinked slowly and lifted his flagon to her in worship. She shifted, and she turned slow, impassive eyes on the goblet he had lifted. She gave a resigned nod to his toast, and that was it. Amid the chaos of the feast, he had said farewell, and she had nodded her acceptance. She would let him go.  
Paris downed the liquid in his cup without tasting the richness of the wine. The queen's piercing vision had moved away from his burning eyes, and Troy's prince was left to feast on her majesty without her gaze condemning the action. He remained there, thus, sprawled backwards in his seat as he watched her. His finger stilled in their bored movements, and his body slump in the seat. And though the food on his plate grew cold, sticky in its own congealed juices and gravy, his appetite was finally sated.

There was much he noticed in his examination. As he watched her in her chair, he noted her posture and the rigid way she sat. Her back was arched, like a feline warning a predator of danger, and her eyes glinted in the evening light with loathing. The blueness of her eyes had not simply faded from sadness, he realized then with a start. It had been leeched by her disgust of the man sitting next to her. Speckled with boar chunks from his plate, Menelaus dripped grease and grime. Serving girls, scantily clad and whirling by in tune to the beat of the music, allured his rough gaze more frequently than the beauty of his wife. She was untouchable and sublime. She was unnoticed. Paris, if no other, saw her shrink backwards in her chair when her consort fingered a ruby-cheeked beauty, Polydora, and Paris seethed with disgust. When Menelaus heaved to his feet, cumbersome and swaying, to address the assembled guests, he did not listen.

"More wine," Paris ordered aloud in a silky voice as he stroked the stem of his goblet. The same beaming serving girl that the king had fondled sent him a commiserating glance as she swung by to receive his request and to dangle enticing fingers on his shoulder as she served him, but he paid her no attention. A burly hand had clasped his shoulder and now commanded his mind. He looked up in surprise to see who intruded on his solitude, but no visitor was more welcome than the one who stood before him.  
"Hector," he realized with relief, and he stood to clasp his brother's hand.  
"Enjoying your evening, Paris? Tomorrow we start for home." Theslowing of Hector's drawl proved his thoughts had strayed to Andromache, and Paris smiled despite himself. "By Apollo's will, tomorrow we start for home. Think of it, brother. Home. Fairer weather, fairer women... I am away often, but I never cease longing for it." Hector had resumed his seat beside the younger prince, and it was with grim eyes that he nursed his own mug of wine. The relief in his tone was colorful, and Paris responded without thinking, even as he allowed his gaze to drift back to Helen.  
"Fairer women? Nay, you aremistaken. I know of a woman here to outshadow your Trojan maidens." Paris's faint murmur escaped despite himself, but it hung between them as transparent as gauze, as thick as iron. Long moments passed, and Hector's mouth thinned.  
"Tell me about this nymph, then,brother. Who is the maiden to capture your heart so?" Hector's words were hard with suspicions despite his easy posture.  
"Who is she, youask?"Paris was silent as he mused over the comment. "She is a fisherman's wife, brother. A lovely creature, but she is none of your concern," Paris spoke slowly, but neither listened. Hector was watching his younger brother, and he was watching the direction of his gaze.  
"I hope, Paris, that the fisherman does not catch you."  
The words were spoken heavily and with regret, and it was an apologetic hand that he placed on Paris' shoulder.  
His brother's bitter retort would forever mystify him. With glittering eyes and an acidic tongue, Paris pronounced verdict.  
"Never fear, Hector. He is too occupied withhis fishes to care."  
When Hector was called away, Paris did not turn around.

Over the gilded rim of his cup, he watched her. Over the gilded edge of his cup, he dared her to have the courage to look at him back. Yes, she would let him go. But it was he, with the eyes of the ignited brimstone, that would not relinquish her.  
_Look at me, Queen of Sparta.  
_She bent forward, chin inclined upwards in response to a comment, to attend to her food. Her lashes swooped downwards in a blink and clung, feverishly holding to her cheeks as she closed her eyes.  
_Look at me, flower of Sparta.  
_She had turned, now, to answer Menelaus. A lily drooped from her wreath and had become entangled in her curls, where it hung, lifeless and prostrate.  
_Look at me, Princess of Troy.  
_Her eyes rose, unsure and wavering, to answer his. Chastened, frightened, she tried to tear her gaze away from his hot challenge. She could not. And, slowly, he saw her eyes melt into their tender vibrancy, and he saw an answering smile appear in their depths. The deadened lily was dropped to the floor as she stood majestically, offering her apologies to Menelaus, to retire upstairs. The lily was crushed under his boot when he, moments later, followed her flight.

* * *

Helen was sitting on her bed when he approached. Upright, closed to his touch, she had bent her face forward so as to be protected against the fire of his glance. Her slender knees were folded and bent as if for protection, and her solemn face was buried into her knees. Weathered hands, long and slender, clasped her legs as she waited for him upon their bed. White skin glimmered in the darkness, and the fallen lilies fell all around her in a shower of petals. They clung to her face and to her hair; they clung to her bare, thin shoulders and to the silk of her dress. Tenderly, he stood still in the doorway and watched her. Tenderly, he approached, and his steps were cautious. Falling to his knees, he plucked one flower from the array, already knocked loose from her wreath, and spun it between his fingers.  
"My ships are readied to travel on the morrow." Paris's voice was dry and raw as he spoke into the stillness. The heat in his eyes was faltering now, unsure and helpless, and the quiet beauty of her features had tempered his wrath. Through it all, he watched her. His heart paused, his breathing stilled, and his eyes waited, unblinking, for a sign that she would speak to him. When she finally looked up, relinquishing her stunning face from the fragile prison of her clasped arms, his world returned to him. Gently, he moved closer on his knees to press his face into her lap, and she began to stroke his hair.  
"You should not be here, Prince of Troy." Her murmur was regretful, but she bent one hand, white and tranquil, to stroke the head he had placed in her lap. The golden coronet she had worn was lopsided now, skewed, and the golden links of the chain fell through her hair like burnished rainfall. Unbidden, his own hands reached upwards to fix it, and she closed her eyes against the power of his touch.  
"No, Helen," he gently withdrew her hand from his hair and held it between two of his, warming it against the chill. "I should be here. I deserve to be here. Will you let me stay? Helen," his voice urged her from the recesses of a dream. "Helen, open your eyes."  
"I come here tonight, Helen, not as a Prince of Troy. I come here tonight as a lover, a humble lover who found you too late and begs to be forgiven for that travesty of timing." His voice was earnest and rich in its earnestness, but he spoke in the fluted tone of a whisper, meek and apologetic. She turned, finally, to meet his gaze. "We are meant to be together. I tried, tonight, to be without you. I watched you beside him, and I wondered if I could relinquish you to his soul for eternity."  
"Do not ask me to endure such pain again. Come with me tomorrow. Come with me to Troy." 

She turned ageless eyes upon him. She watched him quietly for a moment, evaluating his comment, before she leaned forward to murmur a response. Hesitant fingers moved forth and pulled the lily he held from his hands. Inspecting it for a moment, she twirled it between her finger and thumb carefully. When she moved forward to press her kiss to his sculpted forehead, she crushed the lily in the palm of her hand, and the perfume drifted upwards to bathe them both in its scent.  
"Do you know what you are asking, Paris? You are asking me to leave my children. You are asking me to spike Menelaus's hatred and to leave the only life I know." Her tone was slow and unsure, and he raised one bold hand to cup her whitened cheek.  
"Yes." He could barely utter the response.  
Her exquisite features tightened as she held his gaze with somber eyes.  
"You are asking me to leave my kingdom and my childhood. You are asking me to make a new life with you."  
"Again, Helen, yes."  
"Oh, Paris…What of when this game ends?" her eyes were luminous in the darkness. "You will move on to another, and I will be a queen without a kingdom, turned harlot in the bed you foresake nightly," the poison she had carried close to her heart spilled out in words, and she turned her head so that she might not see the truth in his eyes. "I know of you, Paris. I understand you. Do not do something you will regret, Trojan prince." The hand she placed on his arm was cautionary, but he twisted away from its weight. His eyes were hot with anger, but he spoke to her in a voice that was gentle and pleading. Defiantly, he captured the hand she had pulled away and held it between two of his, where he treasured it against his chest.  
"When I was younger, I ventured out onto the beach one morn. Nay, listen to me, Helen." His voice was rough as he spoke, and though he played with her fingers when he uttered his words, his eyes had traversed into a memory she did not recognize.  
"Please listen. It was a choppy day, vengeful and chill with wind. Poseidon was seeking his revenge for something, and I was cautioned to stay inside. But I had seen Hector go out, and I wanted to make sure he was safe. When I reached the shore, I saw that he had somebody with him, and I was stunned. I wanted to call out, but I was too surprised. She wore no cloak, and he was bracing them against the wind to offer shelter.The foam of the surf touched their feet and doused their legs, but they seemed not to care. He was in his own world with her. She created a dream for him, and there was utter peace in his eyes when he saw her."  
"He married her, Helen. Andromache becamemy sister, and she birthed my nephew, Astyanax. I asked him, later, about how he chose her. He simply gazed into the distance, and his smile was not meant for me. He said I would simply know. That, in some way, it would be like coming home."  
"You need to trust me now, " his hand moved up her arm, smooth and reassuring, before it traced circles on her shoulder. "Trust that I love you as you love me. Trust me when I say that this room has been more my home than Troy, and that I cannot leave you behind."  
"What say you, Helen? Will you come?"

Her voice was small when she answered, but it was clear.  
"Yes."


	3. Helen alone

**Explanation**_: Just a note, friends: Paris and Helen always seemed a little too perfect to me. I want to believe in their love, but I find myself wondering at the selfishness of two people that would risk the world without getting to know one another at all. I think that tends to be a superficial part of the legend. For my own satisfaction, I'm putting down in writing where I think the fissures in their love might have appeared.  
This scene is in Helen's point of view._

* * *

Three days ago, they had boarded the ship. Three days ago, she had seen a storm gather on the face of Hector and understood the meaning of anger. Three days ago, she had last seen the tropical shore of her home as they moved away from Sparta, and this night, as she laid crushed in Paris' careless embrace, she wondered at the days. Only three. Three had passed still, and they had been three glorious days in the surf with Paris, filled with days of relaxing among the salty surf, bathed in the scent of brine, and nighttimes of desperate lovemaking, honest and beautiful, as they clutched one another close and tasted one another's tears. But she had seen a different Paris too. She had seen the young Paris, the restless child Paris who chafed at Hector's bonds, and the confidence in her voyage had dimmed. When the waves pounded against the ship, she felt the rocking deep inside of her. It reverberated inside of her, grinding against her body as she slid in the hammock, and her face was slammed against the mesh of the canvas. Beside her, Paris slept deeply and easily, and she watched the serenity of his features with exasperation. Damn some people for being used to sea travel. As for herself, she could manage no such ease of spirit. Her heart rattled inside her chest as frequently as the rollicking waves, and sleep stubbornly refused to make the journey back to rescue her peace of mind. With slender fingers, she lightly pushed herself up in the makeshift bed, and the blankets slipped from her legs. Helen of Sparta was worried about the future.  
_Am I even Helen of Sparta now?_ She asked herself numbly as she curled up in the space their bed afforded her, with her legs looped underneath her rear and her tense body slid in between her locked arms so that she enclosed herself in a prison of her own devising. _Nay, I can't be. But am I of Troy? What will Paris' mind be in a few weeks, after he tires of one woman in his bed? Helen of Sparta. It doesn't sound right. She was a woman in a cage, and her feathers molted from the need for freedom until she was dying alone in the corner of the enclosure. But Helen of Troy is equally chained, and she must bear the embarrassment of knowing she entered those chains herself. No, then. I am simply Helen, of no place, linked to none. Helen. _

Three days ago, they had boarded the ship. Three days ago, she had seen a storm gather on the face of Hector and understood the meaning of anger. Three days ago, she had last seen the tropical shore of her home as they moved away from Sparta, and this night, as she laid crushed in Paris' careless embrace, she wondered at the days. Only three. Three had passed still, and they had been three glorious days in the surf with Paris, filled with days of relaxing among the salty surf, bathed in the scent of brine, and nighttimes of desperate lovemaking, honest and beautiful, as they clutched one another close and tasted one another's tears. But she had seen a different Paris too. She had seen the young Paris, the restless child Paris who chafed at Hector's bonds, and the confidence in her voyage had dimmed. When the waves pounded against the ship, she felt the rocking deep inside of her. It reverberated inside of her, grinding against her body as she slid in the hammock, and her face was slammed against the mesh of the canvas. Beside her, Paris slept deeply and easily, and she watched the serenity of his features with exasperation. Damn some people for being used to sea travel. As for herself, she could manage no such ease of spirit. Her heart rattled inside her chest as frequently as the rollicking waves, and sleep stubbornly refused to make the journey back to rescue her peace of mind. With slender fingers, she lightly pushed herself up in the makeshift bed, and the blankets slipped from her legs. Helen of Sparta was worried about the future. She asked herself numbly as she curled up in the space their bed afforded her, with her legs looped underneath her rear and her tense body slid in between her locked arms so that she enclosed herself in a prison of her own devising. 

With gentle fingers, she reached over to smooth back the hair of her lover. His features were mussed by the darkness. He looked cherubic there, infantile and young, as he nuzzled beneath her probing touch. Despite the quest of her gentle hand down the ridges of his face, his eyes remained still in sleep. Encouraged by his silence, she spoke aloud, even as her eyes became distant and her voice wearied of talking. Any sound to fill this distant midnight hour would be treasured.  
"So young, my love_," _she noted aloud in the faintest whisper with a touch of sadness and an edge of disbelief to her rising voice. In the darkness, she was as shadowed as he, and her white fingers crept from the blackness to wrap his curls around her yearning fingers. "How did you ensnare my heart, Paris? You proved a deft thief, for I do love you." The question was a helpless one, escaping with an exhalation of breath, and she looked at him with a combination of stunned disbelief and helpless self-incrimination. So help her, she knew the folly of this voyage. She was not like he. She understood the consequences and that it would unleash destruction. Sadness, too, painted her features. He looked young there. The young were spoiled and thoughtless… None more so than the beloved Prince of Troy with the ruddy curls and the rosy cheeks.  
"Are you old enough to appreciate the gift, or will you spurn it like so much else? I love you so, Paris," resignation was birthed now, uneasy but accepted, and she finished with a single invocation. "Apollo help us both for this dangerous game we play." As she was sitting there, the darkness came in all around her, and she became aware of the lateness of the night. Back in Sparta, she had become used to the silence. She had determined things, small noises, from which to derive comfort in the bed that was too big and in the palace that was still unfamiliar and foreign when she awoke to the stillness of the middle of the night, when even the sky slept in exhaustion. When she awoke, crying aloud for companionship, she had merely listened for the sound of the maid, rustling in the corridor, and it had soothed her. Other noises, like the rustling of the guards outside as the crunched through sand, had reassured her and calmed her, and the chirping of the early morn birds had used their songs to lull her back into slumber. But here, she had no such basis of familiarity for her nighttime musings. Save for Paris' soft inhalations, the room bore the felt the loneliness of death. The lushness of the night sky, filled with so many sparkling stars woven into its velvet fabric, could not be felt inside this cloistered berth. Here, she had only Paris, and he moved with the stillness of a corpse. Biting her lip, she fought to keep from screaming aloud.

_I am Helen. Simply Helen. I do not need a man for companionship. I am not invisible here, as I was there. I can stay the night alone, _she asserted boldly to herself, but the howling of the wind seemed to call a defiant retort. Laughter was ushered in on the breeze, mocking and jeering, as though doubting her stamina in this farce. The ship creaked and whistled against the sloshing of the waves, and Paris slept on through it all. Through it all, they made a steady crawl away from Sparta, and panic seized her. The wind asked emphatic questions to her disobedient ears, and she found she could not answer them.  
_Does he love you, woman of Sparta? _The wind whistled its query with eyes that danced with mischief._  
_He claims so nightly!  
_But does he really love you, Helen of Sparta? This man does not even awaken at feeling your body leave his arms. Does he really love you?  
_I believe so. I do.  
_Then, Helen of Sparta, why do you spend the night alone? _The wind inquired, and then it was gone. The nighttime was silent, and she found her own thoughts to be loud enough to remove this small comfort.

Suddenly frightened, her knees buckled against the warmth of their blankets. She wanted warmth and reassurance. She wanted him to look at her and hold her and to kiss back her tears and show his adoration, that she might feel at ease with the distance being gained between her homeland and her future. Slowly, her hand reached out to his bare chest, made visible by the coverlet cast aside. Tawny and muscled in the darkness, he resembled nothing so much as a feline cub, lazy and dangerous, but thoughtlessly so, without knowing the ferocity of his dangling paw. Gently, in supplication, she knelt by his side and slung one leg over his rising stomach. Straddling him, her eyes gleamed with heat; her face was flushed with the triumph of conquest and she tightened the hold of her long legs around his prostrate ribs. Still he did not awaken. Desperate to see his piercing, loving eyes beam at hers, and desperate to feel that he existed, that their love was true, she leaned forward. Her rainfall of curls escaped from its casual knot and fell forward to slide and scrabble across her backside, where the ocher color was a direct contrast to the pale beauty of her skin. Even here, as she pressed emphatic fingertips, light and demanded, to the hollow of his neck, she was transparent. As whimsical and fleeting as a butterfly, her beauty was transparent and fragile. The milky lightness to her skin was somehow vulnerable as she waited there, bare on top of him, for him to respond. When even this method proved too elusive to grasp his attention, she bent down to press feverish kisses, demanding and determined all over his skin: against the tautness of his torso, now tight underneath her bucking knees, against the flushed color of his throat, now seized and waiting, against the tightness of his cheeks and the fluttering lids of his eyes, even as his lashes tickled the breadth of her dry, hungry lips.  
Paris awoke fully then. He awoke to grasp her close to him, and feel the weight of his ardor against his hungry lips, where he sucked her tongue between her teeth in promise. Helen had not awoken him for pleasure, but she found his touch and the promise of his ardor to be a ready substitute for the loneliness that beat inside her chest. Deeply, she returned the kiss, and their commingled lips were bold with the coppery taste of blood as they connected.  
"I was lonely," she explained sheepishly against the hotness of his lips as his hands traveled downwards to clutch her back and peel the blanket from her legs. He seemed to pay no attention to her response. Wickedly, with a dazed heat to his eyes that beckoned for her own submission, he ran his fingers through the hair and knotted it around his closing fist, pulling her down with the determination of his grip. She looked up at him in surprise as he entered her, for there was a harshness in his movements that was unlike his previously gentle adoration. And even as she moaned with the pleasure of his movements, she recoiled from the way he seemed to want to dominate her, and her eyes blurred as she drew back. Paris paid no attention. His fingers were a vise on her neck, and he pressed them into her with brutal efficiency. Drawing himself out of her, he waited, poised above her, as he addressed her.  
"Tell me, my love, what you are doing here," he breathed against her skin, but his eyes glowed as he waited.  
"Paris?" she asked then, confused and startled.  
"I hear them, you know. I hear how the say in the daylight that Hector is better and stronger, and that I do nothing for Troy," his words were garbled and quick against her skin, and he spoke with a queer light infusing his eyes as he hurled the comments forth. "But I am the one with the most beautiful woman- me! Tell me, Helen, why you are with me. I desire you to answer. You prince wants you to answer, darling. And you are no longer queen. You no longer command me. I can make you do as I wish. And I desire you to tell me."  
Pinned underneath him, she explored his gaze helplessly. It was ruthless.

_Why did I go with you?_ She considered the question, and many memories came to mind as swift answers. Carefully, with her head drooped into her chest and her hair sliding unbound over her shoulders, she clutched her arms in shame as she gave the answer. It slid forth from the depths of her with a vehemence she did not expect, and her eyes sparkled with rage at the recollection. _I went with you because… _

_"I went with you because no matter how shamed and crazed I felt by the exploitation of my husband's fingers, I was always afraid of the times when he would leave me again, alone, for the bed of another. I was without dignity before you, Paris, my love.  
"I was his minion and his slave, and I liked it because it bought me a pat on the head as his cur. You see, he saw me as his dog," the feeling left her breath quickening in gasps. "I left Sparta because I had no life before. My only chance for escape there was through death, and I have not yet resigned myself to the domain of my immortal brethren for happiness. I went with you because Menelaus coarsened me. Every time he took me maddened me more; I felt like I was going to break apart from the shame of being used so.  
'But I hated most that I dreaded when he would remove himself from me, limp and forgotten, and when I would become the invisible queen again.  
"Any risk of love with you, Paris, is better than living with that kind of humiliation," she threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed his brow. "The worst kind of humiliation. The knowledge that you would gladly cosset the one you hate most and endure his rape, just if it meant a benevolent word or a public gesture." _

But she knew it was an explanation he would never desire, not now. This was a different Paris she saw. This was a Paris that was consumed with his own vanity, as a child is, as a prince is. This was the insecure Paris he had guarded from her view before, as he murmured his precise, moving words of endearment. This was the Paris she had won. Helen began to feel sick.  
"Helen? Why did you come with me? Are you not going to answer?"His demands fell upon her ears relentlessly,and she saw the similar impatience filterthrough his eyes again. Coldly, he tightened his grip on her thin, fluted shoulders, and his nailspierced her skin.Golden curls spilled down her shoulders. As she had so often with Menelaus, she used them as protection. They fell down around her now when she bent her head forward to forestall in answer. She put trembling hands to her eyes, and the white slimness of her palms, like winter and the barren wasteland of the north, covered the darkness of her gaze. For a moment, she rocked there on her heels, blankets woven around her naked body, as she listened to his insistent, petulant query.

"Why, my love? Need you ask? It is because you swept me off of my feet. Because you are the greatest prince in Troy, and because I worship you, darling, as you deserve."

"It is as I thought," he remarked airily then as he slammed back into her, forcing a cry from her startled throat. "You women are all the same, aren't you, my love? That's what they all say to me when they are in my arms. For all your pretty colors, you are just like the rest."  
Helen looked at him. She breathed in the perfume to his skin, and she felt the sweat cool on her body from the heat of their passion. And she knew only one thing. So was he.  
He fell asleep beside her, stroking her hair and pressing apologetic kisses to her brow. His murmurings of love were the same, as always, conciliatory and admiring, and she wondered which was the true Paris: the gilded one she saw now or the panicked coward she had held in her arms.


End file.
